


Dirty Work

by neevebrody



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Character Study, Gen, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neevebrody/pseuds/neevebrody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave Sheppard, all he could think for a moment was that this was John's job, not his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Work

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 apocalypse_kree challenge. This story assumes a timeline where the events of "Outcast" have not yet happened (if they ever do) and where this meeting could have been the first between the brothers in many years.

Dirty Work

Dave balked at the gun. Guns were John's area of expertise and Dave was glad to give it back to him, sweaty palm releasing the polished wooden stock. Though, he was no less disgusted with the machete. The words... "Go for the head" …like John's voice, static crackling through the air.

What was he supposed to do, exactly? With some level of mixed comprehension, Dave watched John drop the other weapons on the carpet their father had purchased in China. Hoes, spades, a pitchfork – he blinked and tried to fit the pieces together.

Unable to reach his parents, Dave had been forced to leave his own family with his brother-in-law, tearful goodbyes exchanged in reassuring words: he'd hurry, it wasn't that far, he'd be home soon. The drive to the estate was eerily non-eventful, hardly any traffic going into the populated areas, but plenty streaming out. By the time he'd arrived, he'd begun to believe everything would turn out fine, but then he'd found John, already here, barring doors and securing windows like he was preparing for a hurricane. Those reassuring words rang hollow as Dave stared down at their cache, the dull ache between his ears buzzing in perfect concert to his frayed nerves.

"The head," John repeated, bringing Dave back to focus.

Was he saying—did John really expect they'd have to—Dave's eyes widened with a sudden clarity.

Creeping through the dining room, Dave kept low just as John said. At the bay window, he peered out through a gap between the boards. The last veil of sunset, its arms spread wide, collected the early evening haze in a shifting mist by the barns. He sucked in a sharp breath as a group of figures appeared through the mist, their lumbering gaits jerky and out of sync, like a bunch of ghoulish wind-up toys let loose across the lawn.

Right up to that point, he'd been able to convince himself that these… _things_ were only people stricken by some horrendous virus, that they needed help, that with the Commonwealth under full militia control he and his family would be safe – a quick trip to fetch his parents, and… Several figures disappeared around the corner of the house and now he wasn't so sure.

His parents were gone. Somewhere safe, John had assured him and Dave supposed they'd sort that out later. How John knew what he did was immaterial, really. Dave was going to trust his brother; he just wished he knew how far out on that limb he'd need to go and where it would lead him. Control – Dave wasn't used to giving it up.

Out in the long hallway, the floorboards creaked under the tread of heavy boots. Dave took a few deep breaths so he could think straight. He'd dawdled so long the same shadowy figures started to appear again, as though they were circling, looking for a way in, sniffing out his weak spot.

A loud bang rattled a door somewhere in the mist, forcing Dave to his feet for a better look. He thought of the horses, started to call out to John and ask if the stables were secure, but one of the shadows paused, stopped mid-step and changed course as if it had seen him.

If Dave was being truthful – and there was no reason not to, at that point – he could admit to hoping that, thwarted at their efforts, these… creatures would simply relent and move on. But it wasn't going to happen that way.

John appeared in the doorway, causing Dave to jump and bang the machete against his knee. He sounded winded as he asked about the solarium.

"It's done," Dave snapped, because securing it was the one thing he'd had to do. Did John think he couldn't even– Oh god, the breezeway! Dave's blood ran icy, rooting him to the spot. His brother's name lodged hopelessly in the back of his throat, Dave struggled to bridge the awkward gulf between them, to somehow quell the growing flame of awareness and judgment in John's eyes. The distant crack of splintering wood and the spray of broken glass on tile told what he couldn't.

"It's okay," John said, deep furrows lining his forehead.

Dave swallowed hard, not buying John's lie. Reality's two-by-four had finally connected with an uncomfortably convincing whack. Dave was really afraid.

"Hey! Snap out of it!" John's grip closed like a vice. "I need you with me, here—I gotta get out there and secure that door."

Sure, Dave thought, _you_ need, _you'll_ take care of it. You always do, except when you don't. But he wouldn't give voice to the words burning a hole in his tongue. Now wasn't the time to question his brother's motives. Dave needed to get back to the simple beauty of his wife's eyes, needed to hear his little girl's sweet voice, and more to the point, he needed John's help to do it.

They stared at one another until John let go of Dave's wrist and turned to leave.

"Be… watch out for yourself," Dave began, and for all of his posturing and pent up resentment, the words came out of his mouth in the small squeaky voice from years ago, whenever he'd catch John sneaking out of the house, wounded not because John was doing something he wasn't supposed to and that was sure to land him in trouble, but because John always went alone. In all the time between them, Dave had never tried to convince John that he hadn't cared about the sneaking out, about being left behind – probably because he'd never been able to convince himself.

"You're coming with me," John replied flatly, like he wasn't giving Dave an option. "We get this done, close up shop here, and head for your car. The rest of the house is locked down, for now. All we have to do is—"

"Get past a gang of plague-infested walking corpses… Hey, what could be simpler?"

John forced a grin, likely trying to think of a snappy comeback, as if there was something worse than being attacked and eaten by one of those things. They both knew that answer, so he just jerked his head for Dave to follow him.

"I can't!" The words tumbled out before Dave could stop them, and he instantly felt every inch the baby brother John always had to look out after, the sheltered little kid who couldn't do anything on his own without messing it up. Not that John had ever judged – he never needed to. It was just a way he had, an air about him… like now. Their father's shotgun looked as though it belonged in John's hands, while the machete in his own felt like a joke – a plastic play sword or some oversized clown hammer.

John had a look on his face like he wanted to say more. Dave tracked between his brother's mouth, as John licked his lips, and the movement of his throat as he swallowed. It was a stalling tactic, what Dave used to call a "bullshit tic." As teenagers, he'd seen John work it many times with their father. When he'd do it then glance away like now, the next words out of his mouth were usually a crock of absolute shit.

"Remember," John said softly, and pointed to his head.

They moved cautiously through the den, away from the center of the house. It was an odd time to think of it, but the room wasn't just their father's space, it _was_ their father. In passing, Dave ran his fingertips over the rich, mahogany surface of the antique partner's desk. The smell of the room – ground-out cigars, aged leather, and citrusy furniture polish – formed an odd mélange that hurled him back in time. John… the two of them sitting opposite one another, spinning in the swivel chairs and puffing on expensive cigars. Probably turning green in the process, but they were the shit so they hadn't cared.

It had been Dave's idea, and Dave had owned up to it after their dad had missed two of the premium smokes from his humidor. Patrick Sheppard hadn't believed his youngest son. Instead, he'd punished John severely for the theft and for putting his brother up to taking the credit. Still, things had been different between him and John after that – for a while. And now, like the memory replaying itself, Dave had them in hot water again.

"John…" Dave said, heart tattooing his chest with a fear he didn't think possible.

"Shut up."

The words rankled him, finally pushing Dave headlong into the unspeakable rift between them. God damn it, if they were going to die together, the least the son-of-a-bitch could do was hear him out. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Yes, I do."

That brother-knows-best tone packed all the subtlety of a slap in the face, not to mention the dismissive, flappy-hand motion behind his back. It made Dave all the more determined to have his say. But as Dave reached out for his brother, a blur of sudden movement knocked John sideways.

Dave reeled back as John went down and he got his first good look at the danger. The mass of sinew and flesh resembled a human écorché. Glaring white tendon and bone gaped through ragged holes, edges blackened and flaked with desiccated skin. There was only one of them, but John couldn't manage to maneuver the gun to take a shot, having to use one arm to hold the thing off him.

It took a moment, one long, brain-searing moment of John screaming Dave's name for the horror to sink in. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once until the echo of it finally seized him. Dave raised the machete and brought it down in a red rage.

The unholy skull opened like splitting a ripe melon, and the wet squelch of it forced bile high in his throat, gagging him. It was a sound Dave was certain would haunt him as long as he lived.

His senses burned with new meaning; adrenaline threaded his pulse until his skin felt a size too small, honing his reflexes to a knife edge. Behind him, a phlegmy moan rattled as John continued to struggle. Dave whirled around and swung for the fences. He didn't expect the lack of resistance the festering and rotting flesh allowed against the blade – one clean swish and it was done, followed by the leaden thunk of head and body hitting the floor. He tried to back out of the way but still the headless mass crumpled against his leg. The stench was overpowering and Dave had to steady himself in order not to vomit. That was some virus. Mutated, John had said, contaminated by some type of bug Dave had never heard of.

John scrambled from beneath the bodies as Dave's stomach roiled then gave another heave. Jaw set, John said nothing, just pushed his way past, hurrying to the breezeway.

Out of sight, lost in the architecture's blind spot, Dave was frozen in place, his chest tight with the waiting, as if he couldn't breathe until he saw John again, alive and well and bitching at him for soiling his clothes. For one crazy, smothering second, he was back behind his first desk at Sheppard Industries, hand clutching his stomach and panic threatening to swallow him.

Sounds of shuffling and clipped curses echoed up the hallway followed closely by two booming shotgun blasts. The air shifted and he felt completely displaced for a moment, ears popping when he swallowed. Another minute or two and the hammering started, frantic at first, and then the pounding rhythm turned soothing, striking with a finality that let him take a full, deep breath, a fetid bouquet tainted by gunpowder, blood, and shit-his-pants fear.

Cold sweat ringed his neck as droplets from the machete blade caught his eye; they fell in inky black circles on the carpet. Following the scarlet trail, he found clots of bone chips and brain matter clinging to his sleeve and hand. He stared at them as though he were looking out from someone else's body, shuddering at the vibration of approaching footfall and the shadowy figure crossing the threshold.

John pumped the shotgun, racking its metal throat back and forth in order to cough up the spent shells. They bounced with a hollow plink and rolled around on the oak floor as he fished two more from his pocket.

Anticipating his brother's harangue, Dave chewed his lip and waited. The last thing he expected to see was John's expression softening, the hard lines melting away as Dave grit his teeth, fighting to keep his eyes from brimming over. He began to shake with the need to crack their maddening void. He needed something from John – validation, ridicule, something, anything!

Mute as a post, John strode past him to a lacquered cabinet in the corner of the den, the one that always sported a shiny padlock when they were kids, and where the bottles inside clinked with a crystalline edge until John found one he liked. Still cradling their dad's gun, John scooped up two glasses, the light glinting off the golden rims as he placed them and the thirty year-old scotch on a table between them.

Dave eyed the offering then his brother. John's gaze flicked away long enough for him to break the seal on the bottle, sardonic pleasure twisting his handsome features as he did so. Dave blinked – there wasn't to be any judgment, no reckoning or accounting. He blinked again and the twist was gone. He was certain the moment had passed, as well, until John poured the first shot.

"Thanks." John slid the drink over, nodding briefly to Dave with the same conspiratorial smirk that once belonged to a skinny, mop-headed kid all elbows and kneecaps, the one Dave knew, for a time, as his partner in crime. "You okay?"

Dave pondered the question. He had no way of knowing what was to come, if his family was safe, if he'd be able to get back to them, or whether John would come with him. He'd killed – not once but twice – without batting an eye, so pinning down his feelings at the moment was a bit like shuffling playing cards in a tornado. All he could think was that this was John's job not his.

"I'm good," he said, trying to make it stick.

John raised his glass. "It sure beats hell out of waiting around to be zombie chow."

Dave downed his scotch and wiped the machete blade across his trousers. "Bring the bottle," he said, smiling for the first time in what felt like weeks. "You're driving."

~ fin ~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks and kudos to the lovely [](http://trillingstar.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://trillingstar.livejournal.com/)**trillingstar** who braved a very shitty first draft to give some fantastic direction.


End file.
